Everybody's Fine
by faux.fiction
Summary: Post s6 Finale. The immediate aftermath and some other ramifications from both the shooting and the miscarriage.


_A/N: Okay, now I feel **really** out of the loop. I've just watched the finale and uhm...whoah. I knew she'd get pregnant, but the miscarriage? Never mind. It feels like ages before S7, so I just had to write this. I guess there are probably a lot of post-finale stories right now, but I have yet to read them. Sorry for not updating in ages-again. But I guess the other fic is officially in hiatus now. I'll get back to it when I can. With that having been said, read on and I hope you enjoy :]_

* * *

She was just _fine_—she's used to wearing that notion like a comfortable old coat anyway. She had gone to the CICU after she was prompted by Cristina only to find Derek struggling to stay awake. He couldn't say much, thanks to the respirator, and not to mention the cocktail of drugs and painkillers administered to him. But when Meredith grasped the railing of his hospital bed, she could've sworn she'd seen a flash of grateful recognition in his eyes. _And that was enough for her now._

Because she gets to keep her husband. That much she knew.

As for everything else, she wasn't very sure. Heck, she doesn't feel like herself after all that had happened. So she sinks on the lone chair next to his bed in resigned silence and tries to keep track of his breathing—even amidst all those tubes and wires—it felt strangely therapeutic. It quelled her raging nerves. _And that too was enough for her now._

As she sits in the small room, she tries to ignore the sharp twinges in her lower abdomen. Ever since she left the OR with April and Owen, she'd been able to manage the pain perfectly _fine. _Even as she held Derek's head it didn't faze her at all. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the hard hitting stress of seeing a loved one bare and vulnerable in an operating table that kept her going. Whatever it was, it's certainly starting to fade away as the minutes waste by. Each cramp made her wince in pain. And no matter what position she shifts to, she can't shrug off that sickening, _consistent _bleeding sensation. It made her want to vomit. Badly.

A few more minutes passed by with what one could call tossing and turning in an uncomfortable chair, and still, her eyes were trained on Derek. She was drinking in the utter gratitude she felt for the fact that he was alive—that _she _was alive. As much as she didn't want to relieve the horror of it all, everything seems burned into her retinas—_Derek getting shot, her bare bloody hands pressed on his chest, having a gun pointed at Cristina, having a gun pointed at her, Derek's monitors flat lining, sobbing on the OR floor, the miscarriage_—it all lingered behind her eyelids, and for that reason, she can't keep them closed for long. Even her thoughts failed to give her security.

It wasn't long though, before a soft knock announced Cristina's arrival—with a grungy Mark Sloan trailing behind her. But she didn't move. She felt too disjointed to stand up, so she willed her eyes to at least acknowledge the presence of the two.

"Hey," Cristina whispered.

"Hey," Meredith reciprocated. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no." Cristina shook her head, "I'm just checking on you two."

"How is he doing?" Cristina softly inquired. Mark on the other hand, who was uncharacteristically quiet, closed the door behind him. It didn't take much contemplation on Meredith's part to figure out that Mark had probably gone through significant emotional trauma too. He just nodded at her and his eyes quickly fell downcast. _As if he couldn't look her in the eye._

"He, uhm, hasn't woken up since," She fills her in and readjusts herself on the chair.

"That's to be expected, until tomorrow morning that is," Cristina prods gently. "Teddy's gonna check on him when she gets back from Seattle Pres—she's helping with the overflow." Mark wasn't saying anything. He was just looking at his best friend with a tired, stoic expression. When he finally broke his silence, he addressed Meredith.

"Meredith," he says in that low, cracked voice. This was one of those situations that called for first-name basis, even for Mark who was contented with the formality and respectful distance of simply calling her _'Grey'_.

"I'll watch him for you. Go with Yang, grab something to eat, change your clothes or anything. I don't care. I know you're dead tired and you look like you're going to pass out any minute."

"Mark," She rebuts. "I…I can't" She tries to make them understand that the last thing she wants to do is to leave his side. But the rational part of her is all but reluctant to just go with Cristina, since her discomfort is already taking its toll on her exhausted body.

"He's still heavily sedated," Mark cuts her. "Yang's worried about you. I don't know why, but she's Yang and so far her instincts kept _him_ alive so…"

Even if Mark was reduced into a rambling mess, she understood his intentions. And even if Cristina was looking at her with a sympathetic expression, that at any other day and circumstance would make her want to roll her eyes at her person, she nodded and took her outstretched hand as she stood up. She feathered a kiss on Derek's forehead, hoping it wouldn't stir him from his peaceful oblivion, before she left the room with Cristina.

No words were spoken between them on the way to the resident's lounge. But it felt like she was finding it hard to keep up with Cristina's quick, calculated pace. A sudden sidestep made her wince. And Cristina hadn't missed that either. After she had closed Derek up, without thinking, she almost did a double take on Meredith's bloody scrub pants. She looked up with eyes wide in shock at her best friend who just softly shook her head in defeat.

Few people were left in the hallways—most of them policemen and disgruntled witnesses— everybody seemed anxious to get away from this hospital, _scratch that, hellhole would be a more appropriate term right now._

The lounge was empty this time. And Meredith allowed herself to prop down on one of the couches as Cristina made a beeline to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water for her person. Meredith thankfully chugged on the cold water like she was dehydrated, no matter how much it stung her dry throat.

"How's Owen?" She gulped.

Cristina's sombreness fell away in an instant as she cocked her head slowly and put on that glib annoyed facade.

"He's parading the hospital with Dr. Webber so to speak," She ranted. "Schmoozing the police like a suck-up. I think it's a soldier thing. Like the GSW on his shoulder never happened. He'll get tired soon and probably beg for morphine."

Meredith had to smile a little. If Cristina was deliberately ranting about Owen, then a mutual understanding between the two must have recently sufficed. But the small smile quickly turned into a grimace as another painful twinge hit her and she squeezed her eyes shut in surprise.

"Mer," Cristina said. "I could page someone for you."

"No, its fine," She cringed. "It's…going away."

"Richard is here?" She was quick to change gears for a while.

"Yeah," Cristina regarded her, and looked for any signs of distress before she pressed on. "He talked Gary Clark down into remission and then he watched him put a bullet through his head."

Meredith didn't wince at the name, neither did she react once she heard of his apparent suicide. But Cristina's voice was hinted with resentment. She was grateful for Richard, though, and wondered what the hell he had said to the gunman. A shadow of relief passed her with the fact that her friend—_and not to mention distant fake father_—redeemed his credibility as an authoritative figure. But what was she supposed to say about Clark? _That's good? Suits him? May he rot in hell? _It sounded strange, even for her, and so all she could get out was, "I guess it's really over, huh?"

"Yeah," Cristina sighed before she snapped stiff again and willed for her friend to look her in the eye. "Meredith, I really_, really _think that you should get checked out. Now."

Meredith looked up at her with a defeated expression for the first time. The bleeding wasn't getting any better, neither was the cramping. She knew she probably had more time to make sure everything was okay while Derek was still deep in sedation. She couldn't risk her health for his sake.

"Tell me honestly," Cristina demanded. "How are you holding up?"

"It's not getting any better," She shifted her gaze from her. "With the bleeding or the cramping. It's…it's not stopping."

And with every once of energy left in her body, she looks directly, _desperately_ at Cristina and says, "I think it's an incomplete miscarriage." It was the second time she'd said it out loud. But without any distraction to filter how she was really feeling at the moment, she swallowed one particularly hard lump in her throat and her eyes glazed over with tears too proud to be shed. And everything became blurry—a Gaussian blur laced everything in sight.

She was hurting. Badly. That much Cristina knew. But she also knew that she was powerless to help her with the emotional part. Hell, even _she_ was helpless three years ago when she herself cried over a pregnancy she never wanted in the first place. So she reached out one arm to Meredith and wrapped her in a pathetic excuse for a hug. Meredith didn't mind. Meanwhile, on her other hand, Cristina sent out a page to Dr. Wilhelmina Adams, an attending OB-GYN and Neonatal specialist she bumped into on her way to the CICU. She couldn't alleviate her grief, but she could help her medically. _And that was enough for the both of them for now._

_

* * *

_

To her surprise, Cristina didn't have to argue with Meredith at all when she led her to the OB/GYN Wing. She was ready to drag her there if she had to—she must really be in a considerable amount of pain.

The floor was quiet, except for a few nurses and staff who were required to stay overnight. They spotted a slightly frazzled Dr. Adams sprinting down the other end of the hallway to meet with them. Adams was a tall Italian brunette around her late forties, with big, comforting hazel eyes the shape of almonds.

"Doctor Yang," She said. Her voice thin, but velvety. "Doctor Grey." Her brow furrowed a little at her presence—everyone in the hospital knew about what happened on the catwalk—but she smiled amiably anyway before returning to Cristina.

"You paged me? What's wrong? I called the surgical floor and they told me that the ERs were closed." Normally, if a resident paged her 911 in the middle of the night, she'd retort. But Yang and Grey weren't ordinary residents, she'd worked with them a few times, and this certainly wasn't an ordinary day. She was known for her patience. Adams dipped both hands in the pockets of her lab coat and led them to the nearest monogrammed door. "Let me just grab something from my office."

"I'm sorry if I panicked you, Dr. Adams," Cristina apologized. "There's just no other attending on-call and it's kind of an emergency."

"_Kind of_ an emergency?" Adams echoed with the faintest native accent as she held the door open for the both of them. Meredith was quiet and avoided eye contact with any of them.

"Meredith—Dr. Grey is in need of your services." Cristina explained.

"Oh," She quips in realization. But she somehow decided that saying 'Congratulations' after your husband got gunned down was a stupid thing to say. She quickly moves on to the next logical question. "How far along are you?"

Her stomach dropped. Cristina looked at her feet.

Meredith was painfully snapped out of her reverie. Even she couldn't answer that question. Three weeks? Four weeks maybe? She had no idea.

"_Were." _She corrects the older woman.

"I'm sorry—?" Adams frowned.

"I had a miscarriage," She says matter-of-factly. "It's _were."_

"Oh," Dr. Adams _condescends _in realization. "Dear, I'm…so sorry."

Meredith gives her a sad nod. An uncomfortable silence followed. Adams bit her lower lip, calculating her next move. "Okay," She goes back to professionalism. "Meredith, let's get you in a gown there in the exam room." Dr. Adams motions to Cristina and the door across the hallway. "Dr. Yang, could you—? I'll be there in a second."

Once Meredith had gotten into the hospital gown, she insisted that Cristina should check on Mark and Derek, and she pointedly said that if Mark had already left, she should go stay there and take his place. Cristina knew it was pointless to argue, so she left with the assurance that she'd page her afterwards.

Meredith sat on the examination table with a war waging in her head. _Grief over gratitude. Gratitude over grief. Grief over gratitude. Gratitude over grief. Couldn't she just call it a draw?_ She thinks desperately. Derek almost died. But he's _alive. _She was pregnant—and was unequivocally happy about it. But she lost the baby. All of this happened in the span of one freaking day. Despite all the crappy things that had happened to her in the past—and everyone knows that that was a monster of a list—she'd never come close to _this_ repulsive kind of grief.

She _knew_ it wasn't uncommon to experience a miscarriage. She _knew_ it was most likely bound to end that way. She _knew _that maybe someday she could have a beautiful child with Derek. But she was just tired of simply _knowing_. For once, she let herself surrender to the unknown. No amount of knowledge could explain why she felt so much profound longing and heartbreak in such a short period of time. All she _knew_ about motherhood was thrown out the window after what happened in the last 24 hours. She was already a changed person when the test came out positive, more so when she felt the anguish as blood ran down her legs. The fact that she _knew_ she had a child that depended on her and didn't make it was too much.

Even if it sounded selfish right now, she wanted Derek to recover fast. She needed to grieve with him, to make peace with what happened with him by her side.

The clock in the room announced that it was after midnight already. Part of her knew that this was just the tip of the iceberg. She was still in shock—trying to process everything that had happened. She let a single tear trail down her cheeks, and brushed it away as quickly as it came. Dr. Adams opened the door as if on cue.

Meredith lay down on the examination table and explained that she'd just found out that morning. That's why she had no idea how far along she was. And no, her husband doesn't know about any of it yet. She'd told her about the week-long morning sickness with a twisted sort of nostalgia. She narrated what happened in the two ORs and related her symptoms—that the cramping had been worse, so was the bleeding and not to mention that she was feeling quite feverish.

Dr. Adams did a quick exam and an ultrasound. Hiding under a veil of professionalism, she announced that Meredith was indeed having an incomplete miscarriage. Even if she already knew about it, she still felt devasted.

Meredith asked her if letting it subside on her own was an option, but Dr. Adams insisted that she needed a D&C right away.

"I know you've been through a lot, but we need to get the remaining tissue out as soon as possible," Adams explained. "It's not going to get any better especially if you start spiking up a fever, and we don't want any complications."

"How long is it going to take?" She was sure that Derek would be worried if he wakes up and finds out like this.

Dr. Adams sensed her anxieties and reassured her, "It won't take long," she said, making a chart for her, effectively classifying her as a surgical patient. "It's a quarter to one, but I strongly suggest that we do it immediately. You can be back at his bedside first thing in the morning. I'll book an OR now."

"Okay," Meredith sniffs. Suddenly it got even harder to breathe.

"Don't worry," Adams regards her with sincere sympathy, and Meredith silently accepts it. "I'd like to help you keep this as a secret until you've told your husband. I know you wouldn't want anyone to know about this yet. We'll close the gallery."

She silently nodded as she paged Cristina.

* * *

Cristina got her page just in time. Mark was still with Derek, but he couldn't sleep. She'd told him that it was kind of him to stay by his bedside without questioning her about stuff. He'd used the same answer he gave to Meredith a while ago, saying that she was Cristina and he believed her— partly because he silently admired her temperament and no-nonsense persona and partly because she had saved his best friend's life.

Meredith arrived on the surgical wing accompanied by Dr. Adams. Cristina, a scrub nurse named Bokey and an anaesthesiologist—both of whom assisted on Derek's operation—helped them in preparing for the silent surgery. But when Meredith was already put under, Dr. Adams requested Dr. Yang not to stick around, and she understood immediately. Instead she went to the Chief's Office in search of Richard Webber—He stepped in as interim chief shortly after Derek's surgery. She would risk Meredith getting mad if she told him what happened, but she figured it was the only way to keep it a secret to more people. Unfortunately, Richard wasn't alone at the time she got there.

And Cristina was surprised to find herself staring at Richard Webber _and _Miranda Bailey.

"Yang?" Richard addressed the dumbfounded resident.

"Sir, I need to speak with you," she demanded. All the while and she took in Bailey's blank expression, and the way she seemed to stare off to space.

"Can't it wait, Dr. Yang?" Richard shifted his eyes to Bailey, who looked tired and defeated. "We're kind of busy."

"It's about Meredith," She called out to him.

At the sound of her former intern's name, her once '_downright depressing' _intern, and Cristina's worried expression, Miranda slowly turned her head towards Cristina, "Spit it out Yang. What happened to that woman this time?" It could've sounded harsh, but it was Bailey's way of showing concern.

* * *

As Dr. Adams promised, the procedure didn't take long. Although what Meredith didn't know was how worried Richard was that he closed the gallery and restricted the recovery rooms from other people. And that Miranda had scrubbed in right after Cristina told them about the D&C. She just stood there, near her head, trying to wrack her brains out for any other person who had been through more painful events than her intern.

When they wheeled her into recovery, Dr. Bailey volunteered to stay by her side until she woke up. She needed the quiet, anyway. And Cristina excused herself to check on Mark and Derek again. Dr. Adams spoke briefly with Dr. Bailey and handed her Meredith's chart before leaving to check on her other patients.

"Thank you, Wilma," She shook her hand.

"No problem," Adams smiled. "Just tell her about it when she wakes up, Miranda. She needs to know from someone she trusts."

"And why didn't you tell her this yourself?" Miranda asked.

"Because she wanted to get the procedure done right away, so we didn't wait for the test results, I mean, really, what good would it do?" She explained, and Miranda nodded in understanding.

It was around three AM. And Miranda felt like the shooting was already a perpetual yesterday—something that would haunt her for the rest of her life. She'd watched many people die before, but if they died in her hands, she could always say that she had done everything she could to save them. But when Charles Percy literally died in her arms, she couldn't do anything. That was paralyzing. Even for her.

But just one look at her former intern reminded her that if it was paralyzing for her, it was beyond words for Meredith. And she knew that this woman had unconventional ways of dealing with grief. Her mother's death was an event she soldiered through. Though she wasn't sure how she would react once she woke up.

Bailey decided to pass the time by reviewing her chart and her very short-lived pregnancy.

Moments later, Meredith began to regain consciousness. For a fraction of a second, she thought she'd get nauseous, but it quickly subsided, and it just felt like she'd woken up from a nap—if you disregard how sore she felt. She was still somewhat disoriented, and she let herself feel that for a while. Then her thoughts drifted back to Derek and it woke her up completely. She stirred and tried to sit up.

"Meredith," Bailey looked up from her chart. She barely noticed her mentor's presence. "Don't strain yourself." Bailey stands up and moves next to her, "Do you want to sit up?" Meredith simply nodded, and Bailey adjusted her bed. After, she moved towards the table across her room and handed her a glass of water. Meredith cleared her throat, "Thank you."

Miranda explained that Cristina had told her, and she knew everything, that she shouldn't worry too much about other people finding out. Instead she asked her how she was feeling.

"Still a little sore," She replied. "Other than that, I'm fine."

Miranda feigned a small laugh, "You're always fine, and that's your problem."

"What time is it?" Meredith asked.

"Around three to four in the morning," Miranda thought it might be better to press on with the details, but she gave her a little more space, a little more time. Meredith, on the other hand, felt empty—in all sense of that word. "How was the procedure?" She frowned at her small, broken voice.

Miranda was sat back on the chair and grabbed her chart once again, "There were no complications."

"Okay," She croaks. "That's good, that's fine."

Bailey felt that if she heard that word again, she would snap. She was anything but fine. She wanted to shake some sense into her, but she was too weak and fragile now. And judging by the tears that slowly streamed her face, she was about to break down. That much she knew.

"After what you've been through, it's okay to be freaked-out. Insecure. Neurotic. And Emotional. But fine-fine? I don't think so." She saw that Meredith was still looking at her intently, expressionless.

"Dr. Adams gave me the results of the tests you took before the surgery." She said.

"Tests?" Meredith asked, she didn't remember taking any tests.

"It's a standard procedure. We needed to know how far along you were," Bailey replied.

"Yeah," Meredith frowns. "I forgot about those."

Miranda nodded and read her chart once more, "It says here that you were eight weeks pregnant."

"Eight?" At most, she expected to be four weeks along, but eight? How could she not have known? She knew it was pointless now. She knew it meant nothing now. But now that she knew that she was actually two months pregnant, it was the final blow. The tears spilled out, and the fact that she couldn't control them took her by surprise. She didn't know grief until she heard herself sobbing like the way she did in Derek's OR, only now it was more hushed, but just as painful.

Miranda set aside her chart and sat on the edge of her bed and held her, allowed her to cry in her arms. She held her and stroked her back. White-hot tears stung Meredith's eyes, and she'd never felt emptier. It was heartbreaking to see her like that. That much Miranda knew. She was a mother too. So she let her sob, and let it all out for what felt like a lifetime for Meredith.

"Why can't I stop crying, Miranda?" Meredith pleads in between sobs.

"It's okay," she tries to hush her. "Just let it all out. It wasn't you fault."

Meredith tried to believe her; that much she knew.

* * *

A few hours later, she got out of the recovery room and could already walk in slow paces. She was anxious to see Derek. Cristina wheeled her outside the CICU and she got up, and entered his room. Cristina also said that he briefly woke up while she was in recovery, but she said that she was resting in an on-call room.

Once she got in, she saw Derek, finally awake. Still groggy, but awake nonetheless, and breathing on his own. She stepped closer and he smiled at him ever so slightly. And at that brief moment, that fraction of a second, she felt like everybody's fine. _And that was enough for her now._

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_Reviews would be nice :]  
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